


not that simple

by solacefruit



Category: Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas (2003)
Genre: Beta Read, Multi, PWP, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 13:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21055409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solacefruit/pseuds/solacefruit
Summary: Marina looked from Sinbad back to Proteus, and the shine in her eyes was for him as well.“It’s been so long,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”Proteus kissed her forehead, still half-unbelieving that she was home again. “I’ve missed you too. We should celebrate,” he said firmly. “Father will want to know you’ve returned too, he’ll want you as guests of honour at dinner tonight—”“After,” said Marina. Her dark eyes echoed something of Sinbad’s usual mischievous gleam. “We have business with you first.”





	not that simple

The first thing Proteus noticed as he approached his chamber was the absence of guards. At all times, two guards were stationed in front of the door, regardless of whether or not Proteus himself was there. This late afternoon, however, the long hallway was empty, except for Proteus and the golden beams of sunlight slanting through the marble pillars. 

The second thing he noticed as he got closer was above the unguarded door. If he hadn’t been looking for it, it would have been nearly impossible to see—but that was the point. It was an impossibly thin thread, placed there by Proteus himself only an hour or so beforehand and designed to snap if disturbed by the opening of the door. The thread, unexpectedly, was intact. 

Nevertheless, Proteus put his hand on the hilt of his sword and his ear to the mahogany of the door. 

He could hear the faint murmur of a voice inside. 

He threw the door open, sword held ready. 

Marina was standing by the shelf to one side of the chamber, holding up one of the many artefacts there to look at it closer, turning it this way and that. Across the room, Sinbad was leaning against the wall, using a knife to clean under his fingernails. They both looked up when the door opened. 

Proteus almost dropped his sword. 

“Finally!” said Sinbad. His attempt to sound exasperated was warped by his smile: it appeared like a strike of lightning across his face, sudden and blinding. 

Marina was smiling at him as well, having hastily put down whatever she’d been looking at. 

“Come in!” she said.

Proteus stepped inside, sword held limply as a great rush of feeling made it difficult to speak. 

“It_ is _my room,” he said blandly after a moment, but it was hardly a real chastisement. “When did you—”

“Get here?” said Sinbad. “_Hours_ ago. I can’t believe you’d make us wait this long, after we travelled across the world to see you.”

Proteus looked to Marina, who had shot Sinbad an unamused look before replying.

“We moored just past lunch,” she told Proteus, “and came up here only a little while ago. Maybe half an hour.”

At the mention of _up here_, Proteus glanced towards the partly open balcony doors of his chamber and noticed the coils of rope left on the stone floor like sleeping serpents. 

“Like old times,” said Sinbad. 

“And the guards?” said Proteus. He had come back to himself enough to put his sword away and place the scabbard on its hook by the door, before shutting the door behind him.

“They’re fine,” said Sinbad. “Just a, hah, little tied up.”

“They’re fine—_really_,” repeated Marina, her voice gentle. She walked over to him and now placed a hand against his cheek, over which he placed his own and held it to his skin. When Proteus had first met Marina, she had scholar’s hands, aristocrat’s hands: perfectly tended with lacquered nails, disused to anything more than turning pages and holding a quill. Now, her hand against his cheek was cool but no longer soft like it used to be: she had calluses ridging the edge of her palm, a scar across her knuckles. 

Proteus turned his face to press a kiss into her palm.

“We wanted to surprise you,” said Marina, smiling. “I remembered your trick with the thread, so we went the long way around. I balanced on the railing most of the way and then held onto the eaves with just my fingertips before dropping down onto your balcony. Impressed?” 

“Very,” said Proteus. 

“Actually,” said Marina, dropping her hand as her face flicked to a familiar expression of concentration, “I’d like to talk to your father about that: I think security should be tightened. It’s too easy to get to you here. There was also some roof damage on the western spire he’ll want to know about and I know he doesn’t already because you can only see it if you’re—well, standing on top of it.” She gave the barest hint of a laugh, half-covering her mouth with her hand. “Maybe don’t mention that part.”

“_More _security?” said Sinbad, as if offended. “Marina, you’re going to make it harder for _us_.”

“As if that matters,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Proteus is the future king of Syracuse and if we can get to him over a few roofs, so could an assassin. _Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me_\--a god tried to kill him once! A god, Sinbad.”

“All right, in his defence, I helped with that,” said Sinbad, then corrected, “sort of, it’s not like I did it on purpose. You know how Eris is. And it worked out great, actually, in case you forgot.”

“_Worked out great_,” she imitated, but didn’t disagree. “Sinbad, I still think Proteus is worth keeping safe, don’t you?”

“The man has a sword,” said Sinbad, gesturing to the hanging blade. “He’s fine!”

“Besides—” continued Marina doggedly, “—_you_ could always use the front door, like everyone else. It won’t kill you. I managed it for years.”

Sinbad threw his hands up with an exasperated groan. Marina immediately looked smug.

“Proteus, tell her you’re not going to die in the night or something,” said Sinbad. 

“I will do my best not to,” said Proteus, solemn, resisting a smile. “I’ve been lucky so far.”

He had been watching the conversation bounce between them with a growing fondness, because their happiness was evident in every movement, every word, as they bickered about him. The greatest gift of seeing them together was how the other’s light seemed to glance between them, like a candle between mirrors, refracted and magnified and sent back the way it came with every silly retort.

Marina looked from Sinbad back to Proteus, and the shine in her eyes was for him as well.

“It’s been so long,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

Proteus kissed her forehead, still half-unbelieving that she was home again. “I’ve missed you too. We should celebrate,” he said firmly. “Father will want to know you’ve returned too, he’ll want you as guests of honour at dinner tonight—”

“After,” said Marina. Her dark eyes echoed something of Sinbad’s usual mischievous gleam. “We have business with you first.”

She took his hand and pulled him with her deeper into the chamber, and the energy of the space shifted: the sharp, bright crackles of laughter gave way to a storm-like quality in the air—an anticipatory pressure, darker and intent. 

“Business?” said Proteus.

Marina looked up at him through her lashes. “Proteus,” she murmured, a gentle, teasing rebuke. Her fingers rested lightly at his hips. 

“Ah,” said Proteus. 

He allowed himself a momentary glance out the side of his eye at Sinbad. He was still leaning against the marble as before, but now there was no pretence of his previous casual disinterest: he was watching Marina, watching _Proteus_, with an unself-conscious hunger on his face. That faltered, though, when his eyes met Proteus’. 

“I missed you too, Sinbad,” said Proteus, extending a hand in Sinbad’s direction. 

He was gratified to see the flicker of pleasure on Sinbad’s face, even though he quickly covered it with a roll of his eyes: dark, like Marina’s, but without her leonine charm. Where Marina’s eyes emphasised her grace and pensiveness and—Proteus had learned through many years of watching her weave her way through political conversations—her own delicate kind of cunning, Sinbad’s eyes had no talent for subtle guile. Proteus had always felt he could read the truth in them, as easily as if it were written on a page. 

“Yeah, yeah,” said Sinbad, dismissive, but strolled towards them anyway. He tossed his head, as if preening. “Who _wouldn’t_ want a real man when you’re surrounded by all these—”

Marina’s hand shot out, snake-like, and yanked Sinbad into a jaw-crushing kiss. 

“I mean this with all the love I have,” said Marina, letting him breathe again after a minute, “shut up. And kiss your boyfriend.”

She pushed him against Proteus. 

Sinbad had fallen hands-first against him, and now looked up, almost sheepish, but those honest eyes, inkwell-dark and intense as a coastal storm, said: _yes_.

Proteus kissed him, slow and soft, at first barely more than a press of lip to lip. Under his mouth, Sinbad began to relax into the kiss, into the ebb and flow of it: a series of gentle pressures and the coaxing warmth of tongue against tongue. When Sinbad leaned in further, kissing deeper, wanting more, Proteus’ heart leapt in dizzying pleasure; and when he breathed a sigh, fingertips brushing against Proteus’ hair with a cautious reverence so unlike Sinbad, Proteus couldn’t help his own intake of breath in wonder. 

Proteus was aware that it was still easier for them to make grand gestures of loyalty standing a sea apart than it was to make these infinitesimal motions of tenderness together, especially for Sinbad. There was a tremor in Sinbad’s hand as he allowed himself to hold Proteus’ hip, pressing up against him as he pulled his body closer. 

Across the room from them, Marina shut the balcony doors. 

“Don’t mind me, boys,” she said, but her hands were already at the clasp of the sash around her waist and Proteus watched it fall to the floor, unable to look away.

Sinbad tugged the front of Proteus jacket. “Hey,” he said, clearly striving not to sound whiny and failing, “_hey_, Proteus, I’m here.”

Proteus kissed him again, then pulled away. “You get to look at her all the time,” he chided. 

“I get to see _you_ hardly ever,” countered Sinbad. 

“Sinbad,” interrupted Marina, “don’t be ridiculous.” She breezed over between them, shrugging out of her shirt and casting it aside. Then she gestured at Proteus. “He’s there. You can look at him.”

“You know what I meant.”

Marina’s eyes narrowed with a triumphant glance in his direction. “No, I don’t think so. I think if you _want_ something,” she continued, walking her fingers up Proteus’ chest, “you should say it. For instance,” she said as she pushed Proteus’ jacket off over his shoulders, kissing his cheek before murmuring into his ear, “I want you to take all of this off.” 

Proteus kicked off his shoes at once. After that, it was easy to slide his shirt off and step out of his pants, throwing them both away to lie on the tiles alongside Marina’s. 

Sinbad seemed to be overcoming his initial hesitancy, for the moment Proteus was out of his pants Sinbad’s hands were on him again, sliding down the flanks of his body, fingertips exploring the dips between muscles, the rises of bone below the skin. Proteus didn’t quite shiver at his touch, but it was a near thing: the wandering trail of Sinbad’s fingertips seemed to ring against his skin even after they moved on, like the echo of a temple bell in an empty courtyard. 

Marina now drew Proteus’ attention; she stepped in close in front of him, naked to the waist, and took his hands. She cupped her breasts with them, and a fresh wave of desire rolled through Proteus as their warm, heavy weight filled his palms. With a thumb, he brushed over one nipple, teasing it in gentle, circular stokes until it stood firm under his touch; and Marina responded with a sound halfway between pleasure and frustration. 

The heat of anticipation pulsed low in Proteus’ stomach, spreading like wine in the blood.

“The bed,” Marina breathed against his mouth.

Marina brushed the curtains of the bed aside with a sweep of her arm and gestured to Sinbad over Proteus’ shoulder. 

Proteus found himself thrown forward against the blankets, Sinbad pressing up behind him, half-playful with his movements, but undeniably interested.

“Not yet,” said Marina. She was sliding out of her own pants beside them. “Proteus wants you to show him how good you are with your mouth,” she said, sweet as syrup. “Don’t you, Proteus?”

Proteus moaned a muffled sound against the mattress. 

Sinbad turned him by his hip before pulling him to the edge of the bed. Then he folded down onto his knees before Proteus, hands resting on the thighs either side. Marina sat behind Proteus, placing kisses against his neck. Her teeth grazed lightly along his throat. 

Sinbad wet his lips and leaned forward, his breath almost painful-bright where it brushed over Proteus, his taut nerves singing like wind-chimes. Then Sinbad’s tongue pressed flat to the very tip, moving into one slow deliberate lick, and Proteus arched against Marina, gasping.

Sinbad needed no further encouragement: with one hand wrapped around Proteus’ length to steady him and the other braced against his thigh, he took the head of him into his mouth fully and Proteus gasped again, overwhelmed by the sensation. It was like sinking into hot wet satin, constricting around him, shifting and gliding against his over-tight skin. 

Sinbad’s mouth moved cleverly as he coaxed Proteus to the height of his arousal; he traced the ridges and underside of the head with coy swipes of his tongue, teased the slit just enough to make Proteus grip the bed sheets. Proteus could feel his pulse throbbing against Sinbad’s palm as he kissed down the length; it felt so loud in his own ears it was hard to believe neither Sinbad nor Marina could hear it, or the hammering of his heart. 

Then Sinbad took in as much of him as he could, down as far as he could go in one swallow, and Proteus moaned in ecstatic shock, barely able to hold back from spilling right then and there. 

“Want more?” purred Marina against his throat. She was playing with his nipples, working him towards oversensitivity.

Proteus had to hold back another moan to answer. “Yes,” he said, hearing the roughness of his own voice. “_Please_.”

Sinbad pulled back, sitting on his heels and looking to Marina. The sudden cool air against his slick skin made Proteus twitch; he was torn between grabbing a fistful of Sinbad’s hair and pulling him up for a kiss, and pulling him by the hair back down to coat his thighs in yet more kisses and bring back the wonderful warmth of his mouth. 

Proteus got to do neither, however. Marina unwound from behind him and pushed him onto his front before he could make his hands work again, and the rustling of fabric behind them told Proteus Sinbad was finally discarding his clothes as well. 

Proteus propped himself up on his elbows to glance at Marina beside him and gestured with a tilt of his head for her to come closer. She leaned down to kiss him, her fingers threading through his half-tied up hair. 

“Thank you,” said Proteus, “but that wasn’t what I was thinking.”

He allowed his eyes to glide over the angle of her collarbones, down the curve of her breasts, over the bow of her hip to appealing crease of her thighs; she was sitting to the side, her legs folded one over the other, as if in a demure parody. 

Marina followed his eyes and smiled. “Oh,” she said, leaning back on the bed and shifting a leg to tease him with a glimpse. “Something else on your mind?”

“Would prefer it on my lips,” said Proteus with a smile of his own, and for a single moment, it felt like years ago and nothing changed; the two of them side-by-side speaking in undertones at public events, a secret world of unassuming words that no-one else could reach. 

It had felt to Proteus the same kind of elation and fire as his youth fighting alongside Sinbad; but where Sinbad and Proteus had the clashes of swords, Marina and Proteus had this: a careful, subtle dance of tongues and glances, the witty deflections and parries of compliments, the furtive truth-telling between pleasant inanities at the high table. It was its own kind of swordsmanship, one with an invisible blade. 

Marina moved herself over to Proteus, allowing him to pepper kisses along her thighs as she placed them either side of his arms. She pointed to something near Sinbad. 

“On the shel—_ff_,” she said. 

Proteus had waited until that moment of distraction and then ran his tongue over her, delighting in the stutter and following gasps she made. Her hips moved against him as if outside of her control; she ground against his tongue, hungry for greater friction, and when he first dipped inside her, she moaned, falling back against the mattress. 

Sinbad ran a hand down Proteus’ back before angling him the way he wanted. 

An oil-slicked finger traced down the crack of his buttocks, a stray drip causing Proteus to shudder. The pad of Sinbad’s finger hesitated over that most sensitive spot, only a fraction of the pressure Proteus wanted. He leaned back, feeling a rising sense of desperation. 

Sinbad steadied him at the hip and Proteus huffed a breath.

“Don’t worry,” said Proteus, “just—just go, please.” When Sinbad didn’t move, he groaned. “Sinbad, _please_.”

“Easy, tiger,” said Sinbad, in what he probably thought was a soothing voice. “I’ve got you.”

Unable to help himself, Proteus said, “You’re not going to make me wait _again, _are you?”

Marina snorted a laugh before covering her mouth with a hand. 

“You leave it to the last minute _once_,” muttered Sinbad, but he lined up against Proteus anyway. Proteus heard him take a breath, felt the slight squeeze of Sinbad’s hand around his hip.

Proteus put his mouth back to Marina, sliding his tongue in deep. He curled it, making her hips buck again, and then fell into a rhythm he knew she liked, his strokes deep and undulating.

He sighed against her when Sinbad finally began to move--a long, achingly slow slide, inch by incremental inch, stretching him until Proteus could feel tremors in his thighs from the effort of not moving himself. He wanted to grind against the mattress for some relief, but Sinbad’s hands—both of them, now—held him still, pinned where he was. 

Finally, Sinbad stopped, reaching his limit. Proteus ground back against him; the fabric of the bed rubbed against his over-sensitive length, almost rough to the touch. 

Then Sinbad was moving again, in earnest this time. He pushed into Proteus like a ferocious wave, pulled back with a hiss of breath inhaled between his teeth, and repeating the motion until Proteus’ head was spinning and there were white lights behind his closed eyes. Sinbad brought his hips up and back, a rocking movement that made it increasingly difficult for Proteus to keep his tongue in rhythm for Marina--but when he next caught a glimpse of her face, blinking away the dizzy stars from his eyes, he could tell she didn’t mind. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with satisfaction and desire, watching him pant as Sinbad stretched him and sent wild shivers of pleasure up and down his spine. 

Sinbad suddenly leaned forward, changing the angle. One hand braced him against the mattress, the other landed roughly over Proteus’, a clumsy attempt to hold it. Proteus cried out, feeling like a loose spool of thread: unravelling rapidly, an incoherent mess of tangled nerves. 

“I want—”

Sinbad arched enough for Proteus to shift one arm beneath him, taking himself in his hand with shaking strokes as Sinbad rocked his hips harder, faster, determined to work Proteus into a trembling wreck. 

Marina’s hands cupped Proteus’ face as she dropped down to kiss him, almost as breathless as he was. 

“We’ve missed you so much,” she said between frantic kisses. “I’ve missed you so much, Proteus.”

Sinbad managed to link his fingers through Proteus’ on the bed, gripping hard enough to make his knuckles faintly ache. 

“It’s good to be home,” he said, a half-choked rasp in his voice. “Home with you.”

Proteus came undone with a shout, with a jolt through his whole body, with a great burning bright-hot pulse through every nerve and vein like a dozen lighthouses turning on all at once. Sinbad’s hips stuttered, his breathing ragged and close above Proteus, and after another couple of hard thrusts, he came with a groan.

Proteus fell limp and boneless on the bed, only distantly aware of Marina’s hands stroking his hair and pulling it out of his face, of Sinbad easing out of him with a slight wince. 

“Did you...?” he murmured to no-one in particular, letting Marina’s palm cradle his face. 

“Time for that later,” said Marina. She half-dragged, half-coaxed him up onto the bed proper, and Proteus rolled onto his back, feeling pleasantly tingly from his fingertips all the way down to his toes. “Right now I want to watch you feeling good.”

There was a clinking from the side of the room. Sinbad had poured out water from the ewer into a little basin, using a rag to wipe away sweat and oil. Then he poured a tumbler and walked over to the bed, taking a sip of it before offering it to Proteus.

“It’s not poisoned,” he guessed. 

Proteus gratefully took the tumbler and sipped as well, before saying, “And you’re sure we can’t convince you to become royal taste-tester? A man of your talents deserves better than a life of hard-work on the sea, Sinbad.”

Marina cackled a laugh beside him. Sinbad frowned, but Proteus could see him struggling not to smile. 

“That’s all right, you laugh,” said Sinbad, sitting himself down heavily on the bed between Marina and Proteus. “Like I didn’t teach you how to sail,” he said to Marina, “and you how to--” he faltered, apparently running up short.

“Go on,” said Marina, enjoying herself.

“Anger a whole roomful of people?” asked Proteus innocently. “Get chased up a tree by a stray cat?”

“_No_,” said Marina, eyes wide. She was grinning.

“Oh, that was one time!” said Sinbad. “You were there, Proteus, the thing was out of its mind. Completely feral.” 

“We were only about fifteen,” said Proteus to Marina, in Sinbad’s defence. 

“Now look at the two of you,” said Marina, a wry twist of her lips. “The prince and the pirate. It sounds like an opera.”

Sinbad shushed her and she kissed his cheek in apology. 

“The three of us,” corrected Proteus, looking to Marina. “The prodigy?” he suggested. 

“The pain in the arse,” said Sinbad, receiving a light smack on the arm from her for it. “_Hey_. Also, I think you mean four, Proteus.”

“What?” 

“Four of us,” said Sinbad. 

“No?” Proteus and Marina exchanged mystified glances. 

“You,” said Sinbad, all lazy smiles, “me, Marina, and Syracuse!”

Proteus coughed into his water. “That’s—”

“It’s all right, I didn’t forget her,” said Sinbad, clapping Proteus hard on the back. “I know she’s who you think about at night when we’re at sea. It’s okay.”

“_Sinbad_,” said Proteus, appalled.

“Lie back and think of Syracuse, am I right?” said Sinbad, dark eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked from Proteus to Marina, who was shaking with a silent giggle. “Isn’t that what you noble types whisper to each other?”

They both jostled him then, before flopping back onto the bed in a slightly sweat-damp heap. A sort of breathless happiness floated between them in the quiet. 

“How long will you be staying this time?” Proteus asked eventually, half-afraid to hear the answer.

“A while,” said Sinbad. “Maybe a month.”

Proteus nodded. It was a complicated emotion: gratitude for a whole month with them, but also already despairing of their next voyage. But he understood that it would be impossible to have everything he wanted all at once: impossible to wear the crown of Syracuse and follow them out to sea, impossible to keep them here with him forever when the call of the sea was ebbing in from the port. He had to have them for brief season they came to him, and be patient until they returned. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t easy, but it was better than anything else in the world. 

“We’ll have to make the most of it, then,” he said. 

Marina reached over Sinbad to hold Proteus’ hand. 

“Let me know when you can go again,” she told him, lacing her fingers between his. “It’s my turn next.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction is my first time ever writing smut. As such, feedback for improvement and constructive criticism are very welcome! Thank you for reading.


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